Nosgothian Tales
by Neuro-chip-angel
Summary: Moebius experiences the torments of a certain Necromancers duties, as he deals with a demonic landscape. Raziel faces the ultimate challenge, battiling character assassinations and various Hylden along the way. Chapter Nine: Endings, is now up.
1. The Ever Popular Jimmy

All characters belong to Crystal Dynamics and Eidos (C) 1995- 2006.

**Chapter One: The Ever Popular Jimmy**

The truth can be discovered within an instant, unfortunately Moebius was all to aware of this sordid fact. Before him lay a months worth of tax receipts, absentee forms and for some strange reason Mortanius's sock collection. Though creepy by nature these disgusting wooly little things reminded the Gaurdian of Death that life was fickle and milk boys should always be prompt. He hoped to encourage the other members of the milk delivery organization by nailing these unholy creations to the Sarafan Strongholds entrance. As one black little right footer started to casually crawl over the Streamers left hand, he let out a wimper and sighed. Possessed milk boy socks were one thing, however he despised the other gaurdians desire to turn him into a glorified secretary. However this was in many ways preferable to the truth, if they ever discovered he was in fact Jimmy the janitor his time-streaming days would be over.

Thankfully in Nosgoth an amazing ability to disregard the laws of common sense resided, every single inhabitant kept a diary detailing their movements. Except for Raziel which explained his free will, that and the original was destroyed in an unfortunate Abyss incident. Not to mention a certain little Wraith was too lazy to create another copy, angst and deifying the wheel of fate were slightly more entertaining hobbies. Every time his omniscience slipped one of Moebius's many agents had failed to photocopy an important players latest entry. For some reason following a recently heartless Kain into a Hylden infested demon dimension was not Franks idea of a good time. Well at least Moebius managed to keep his head during his latest demise. As for Frank thanks to Mortanius, he was now eternally bound to a pike sporting his head outside Moebius's chamber. Despite the warm fuzzy Moebius gained from this experience, the Death Gaurdians favour came at a rather annoying price. His remaining days were to be focused on explaining Nosgoths various inconsistencies, sorting through Mortanius's damned collection of crap and cleaning his domain. Now if Moebius realized various demon infested realms were part of Morty's empire the whole pike thing may have seemed less appealing. Sadly his duties included inventorying Morty's milk boy socks and a rather abundant gathering of chairs that continued to cry out things like please help me kind sir or awww oooo.

Moebius had managed to set up a small workspace in Morty's room, multitasking was a highly valued skill in the Sarafan Stronghold. Despite witnessing this ability in some of his subordinates, there was a disturbed feeling associated with watching Raziel braid Turels hair whilst on guard duty. Thankfully these two ingrates were long dead and running around the future Nosgothian landscape enforcing their twisted fashion trends upon the huddled masses. Back in the present, Moebius was currently engaged in hand to hand combat with a possessed rubber duckie and some fuzzy pink bunny slippers. At this point Mortanius casually walked by to check on the Time Streamers/ Secretarys progress.

Mortanius: Enjoying yourself Moebius. If you do so find those slippers quite the excessary I can always point you to a guy in Willendorf who owns a nice little boutique.

Mortanius laughed as one bunny slipper somehow managed to attach itself lovingly to Moebius's larynx. After a brief struggle Moebius wrenched the fiend off, forced it to the ground and pinned it with his staff. The creature twitched for a few seconds then relented.

Moebius: Why do you torment me? A humble old man trying to better the world by helping deaths own hand with a little housekeeping.

Mortanius: Oh please Moebius, stop the foolish old man facade. I've known for an eternity, your personality echoes that of a back stabbing viper. Save your platitudes for the foolish like Raziel or even Kain.

Moebius: How can you slander me so? One of your own brethren- urk...?

At this point Mortanius revealed his limited patience and casually allowed his faithful rubber duckie to explore a new world. Which led to a certain old man enjoying the sights and smells of the rooms elaborate carpeting. As he lay in the classic foetal position, Mortanius casually walked over him and grabbed a collection of texts and a two sided coin. He then headed for the nearest exit, a large red wormhole with a do not disturb sign.

Mortanius: (as he left) Moebius I sincerely believe you should check this place out, your robes remain quite the fashion statement, when you vist a time some odd twenty thousand years ago.

He dropped a card, which according to Nosgoths gravitational rules landed in the most convenient place possible. Moebius glanced at the thin piece of paper now in his hand. It had a rather dashing picture of a man with long flowing black hair tied up in a pony tail. The text in the corner read: The Willendorf Fashion of Faustus.

Raziel soon became painfully aware that certain individuals were casting a very unfortunate light towards his new found Janos Audron obsession. If the ring-leader failed to stop these outrageous claims he would become one with a certain sushi place near Coorhagen. Raziel couldn't help but feel a tad guilty for Janos Audron's drastic change from a warm mentor and animal lover to a heartless corpse. Not to mention the fact he kind of left the body under a pile of rubble whilst dashing off to find his crushed benefactors missing organ. Hopefully Vorador had read the short message he just dropped off on the Vampires favourite self portrait, which also happened to be a large welcome mat. Despite the fact his note lacked Shakespearian overtures and actually said:

The big blue sleeps with the fishes.

Oh and it's kind of Kains fault, yep

good old Kain- Raz.

Raziel hoped to the dear sweet Elder God alternative that Vorador had a vague idea what in the Abyss was happening. Besides cryptic messages were a vital staple amongst the average major characters in this realm. Anyway the slight detour also helped to explain the Sarafan Six's amazing ability to best Raziels running speed.

After a brief confrontation with a Hylden pair who addressed themselves as Jack and Ha till nab', Raziel managed to jump over several demonic couples as he ran towards the Stronghold. Upon entering the main hallway there was a slight cursing noise and a distinct scream as what sounded like a pile of possessed milk boy socks had fallen onto a shocked time gaurdian. The wraith stopped suddenly as someone in an archaic twenty thousand year old robe, crawled out of a large red wormhole ladden room, whilst attempting to strangle several black socks. Moebius trying to regain a shred of dignity gradually stood up to his full height and glared menacingly into Raziels glowing eye sockets.

Moebius: Redeemer, Destroyer and my favourite pawn we meet again.

Raziel: Old man, what is this? A trick or some grand scheme designed to twist what's left of my confused psyche? I refuse to be your puppet trapped in an infinite web of lies and deceit.

Moebius: Despite my overwhelming desire to validate your self absorbed theories Raziel, this has absolutely nothing to do with you! Mortanius desired my expert skills.

Raziel: ...

Moebius: Besides at least my multi-tasking does not reside within the realm of hair foreplay. Ah Malek, nice of you to finally join us. Honestly I'm surprised my skin is still attached.

Malek looking slightly confused, despite his armour ensemble covering up the majority of his facial features, lets just say they could tell by the way he held onto that gigantic staff and wiggled his butt.

Malek: I'm sorry Lord Moebius, there was this nice green gentleman at the main gate who wanted to personally thank the circle for supporting the Sarafan...

Moebius: Despite my obvious overwhelming interest in your fascinating tale, we have company. This grotesque abomination who surprisingly didn't come in any other colour than blue, is the real threat to the circle!

Raziel: Hey!

Malek: Um ok, seeing as I don't believe there is anyone else around to threaten the circle, I guess I could guard this fiend.

Moebius: You guess? My word is final!

Raziel: Excuse me, the blue abomination is still here!

Suddenly a blood curdling scream flowed down the corridor.

Gaurdian 1: MALEK!

Moebius: Honestly I really don't have time for this, there are socks to destroy.

Gaurdians 1-6: MALEK GET YOUR SHINEY ASS DOWN HERE!

Malek: Lord Moebius, the gaurdians, I think they need a hand with something.

Moebius: Just a few more minutes.

Moebius grabs his pocket watch from a strange place- as his robes seem to have no distinct pockets and began to count down the seconds.

Moebius: That should just about do it, Malek you may go.

Malek: Hopefully I get there in time or Mortanius may extract a reasonable chunk out of my lower back region.

Moebius distinctly bored with the current situation, knowing its outcome, casually throws the Soul Reaver into an unaware Raziels direction. After a fun thud, the wraith runs off to continue his quest for the heart of darkness, Moebius strolls back to Mortanius's possessed quarters. He rolls his eyes upon seeing the black socks have started a crusade against the red ones. The mock parody continued as a green sock was about to have its, lack for a better word, head chopped off. As this drama unfolded a distinctly human Raziel popped his head around the corner.

Sarafan Raziel: My, my, Lord Moebius your looking a bit drab, have you tried this store in Willendorf ran by a naive called Faus...urk?

Moebius experiencing the after effects of a rather tiring day found the staffed rabbit slippers other pair and showed his Sarafan subordinate the cons of annoying a strained Time-Streamer.

NCA: If there is a character you would love to see in an upcoming chapter, don't hesitate to scream out his or her name.


	2. Faust of the Damned

All characters belong to Crystal Dynamics and Eidos (C) 1995- 2006

**Chapter Two: Faust of the Damned **

Faustus lamented over his current predicament, sales were deminishing. Despite an ongoing patronage from the circle, his family business which remained from the days of the ancients to that of the human circle, was suffering. Like everyone else, the best candidate to blame was King Ottomar, however this had to be done with a grudging respect. Otherwise he might receive an egging from the village folk, just like Marcus, whom sadly to this day is incapable of growing a forrest of rich model grade hair. Faustus was very thankful for his bushy set of follicles, yet always wondered if there was more to life.

He stared out into the distant street as peasants continued about their day, he noticed that arrogant young upstart Sebastian heading towards the store. This greatly displeased Faustus who found the man slightly irritable, mostly due the fact he ran a rival fashion house in Stahlberg. On the other hand in many ways this really beats a visit from the Kings army commander, that raving lunatic Magnus. Who seemed to have an affinity for Faustus's fine china tea set with the matching blue glaze. Sadly it disappeared a few weeks ago, Faustus shrugged it off thankful that Magnus hadn't raided his house like the others, just for a lousy set of porcelain and the bloody kettle. The man would probably strip down and strap one to his back if given half a chance. Sebastian burst in rather rudely interrupting the shop owners abstract train of thought.

Sebastian: Faustus, how are things?

Faustus: Quite well, by your extravagant entrance I'm going to work under the theory you are in need of something?

Sebastian: Your powers of observation are exceptional, I've just taken a moment out of my busy schedule to pay homage to the neighbors.

Faustus: Oh great...excuse me?

Sebastian: Well, with the advancing legion of The Nemesis, setting fire to everything in my quaint little town, I decided to relocate. Remembering how we two were such buddies, I decided this would be the perfect location. Seeing as Coorhagen is now a corpse ridden hole and Avernus is in flames.

Faustus now quite plainly grinding his teeth and attempting to summon up a degree of strength for a half hearted smile, managed a mere smirk. Faustus then came to a realization, a brilliant idea.

Faustus: My dear Sebastian have you found a place yet?

Sebastian: Sadly no, everyone's all booked up at the moment.

Faustus: Well there's this nice large wood cabin down the road on Hyde Avenue right next to the barber shop. The owner is a little excentric, he might have a spare room and be mindful of his tea set collection. He hates to see them in one piece.

Sebastian: Why thank you Faustus, isn't it nice to put our rivalry aside for a moment to embrace intelligent conversation. Goodbye.

Faustus: Enjoy.

At this point Faustus was whole heartedly patting himself on the back and trying to suppress an increasing desire to laugh outwardly. That was until this creepy looking fellow with what seemed like an army of socks walked through the modest shopkeepers door.

-----

Truth be told the real reason Hash ak gik wanted out of the demon dimension was due to his dislike of being everyones butt monkey. The other Hylden enjoyed the demon dimension, even though they had suffered the indignity of having their asses kicked by the vampire scourge twice. Despite this fact things had really picked up since Janos Audron was accidentally cast into their realm. Minus Hash's continued whining regarding the Ancients presence, the others were growing quite fond of the middle aged winged blue creature. They spent their days retelling old war stories and inventing new ways to spruce up the dimensional rift.

Janos: I remember you, unbelievable, so your one of the few people I was ordered to ram through with a giant pike during the great war?

Simon: If anyone was to force me into this hell hole, I'm glad it was you. Oh and the personal touch, a few tears here plus the little prayer- classic.

Janos: I really do abhor violence. sniff

When one explored the heart of the matter, the Hylden were in fact greatly jealous of the Ancients last names. This was what fed their destructive rage during the great war. They felt there was a slight degree of favoritism from the wheel of fate, allowing the Ancients to create the concept of surnames first. If the Hylden followed they would of been accused of ripping off their rivals. So they decided to embrace three little names to form a grander whole. However despite this grand creation, the concept still didn't have the desired surname with the fun two big words as apposed to three little ones. On the upside for Janos, times were changing, some Hylden decided to adopt one big impressive name like the humans or undead Nosgothians. For instance Jack or even Larry were popular amongst these beings.

Whilst the single Ancient and many Hylden prattled on endlessly, Mortanius glided amongst the firery flames in the background searching for an appropriate dimensional rift.

-----

Vorador was glad to be home, the slaughter of so called innocents was starting to get a bit hum-drum for his liking. Sadly the red sustenance that poured from his victims veins remained a tiresome affair when it came to removing the stuff from his finely tailored robes. As he entered the main foyer of his mansion, he began to contemplate the wisdom of placing his visage on the welcome matt, allowing any Tom, Dick or Harry to trample all over his noble features. Thankfully, the decadent vampires who went by the same names were restricted to gardening duties and banned from entering his household. Only one gender was allowed in this elaborate glorified pleasure temple and they were definitely not his band of unholy husbands. As Vorador continued down this lengthy stretched version of himself he felt something underfoot. Leaning down he discovered a crumpled piece of paper containing a cryptic message.

Vorador: Hmmm, big fishes Kains fault- Raz

Unluckily for Raziel certain parts of the note had been blotched out, sadly Vorador wasn't big on housekeeping. The ceiling leaked during the latest storm, which also explained why three of his brides were lying on the ground moaning in the time honored foetal position. Vorador rolled his eyes and began to ponder what could be transpiring and the most convenient excuse was that Raziel had finally decided to take the official plunge. The vampires unholy wretched excuse for a savior finally lost what remained of his tortured little mind. Despite the fact she received absolutely no aid or recognition, one of the brides managed to capture Voradors attention by clinging to his ankle.

Bride: Master I managed to read the note before the hellfire, it said something about a big blue babes demise and it being Kain's fault.

Vorador: Janos is in trouble! Why didn't you gasp out something earlier?

With this startling revelation Vorador burst out of the main entrance and made a direct line towards Audrons retreat. By then the bride slumped back onto the ground and started to pout.

Bride (to no one in particular): You didn't ask.

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	3. The Curse of Superficiality

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**Chapter Three: The Curse of Superficiality**

For the first time Kain realized the true reason why Nosgothian humanity despised his kind. It became clear in an instant over the course of his first few days living with his vampiric sons. Unlike Faustus, Sebastian, Marcus or even Magnus, his children were quite the gathering of putrescence. Well, except for Rahab, who proudly flaunted this fact as good old Dad allowed him a closer seat at the dinning table. Rahab smelled like a newly sprouted rose dripping with nectar, except this son also enjoyed his dripping acidic touch. Many refused to shake his soaked hands, sadly for the rest of his brethren this was a polite ritualistic curteousy at all clan functions.

Kain sighed, many a down wind village were readily abandoned a few hours before his lieutenants arrived. Which was one of the reasons Janos received such an infamous reputation in Uschteheim. Sure they would say he was a fierce brute, yet the truth, that he was a tear inducing stinker created a less entertaining feel for visitors. The town thrived on tourism in the centuries after Audrons demise, stalls were set up carting miniature hearts of darkness cards and even a few people were hired to roam the streets telling awe inspiring tales.

In the future, bathing was a sordid affair, often when the stench became unbearable a quick soak was attempted. This tactic quickly bore an insignificant fruit, singed flesh and charred skin revealed an odour far less compelling than the original. So Rahab remained the cleanest of them all and inherited the washing duties including laundry. Though Kain sported a happy disposition after the demise of his children, he discovered his gift of nasal freedom died prematurely. Now the suffering came with the forceful vengeance of a walking corpse, intent on hunting Kain down till the end of days. To this the old vampire wondered what he had done to deserve such a fate. Then another thought entered his mind, maybe dooming Nosgoth to eternal decadence was not such a good idea.

Kain being the uniquely positive sort, decided that seeing as Nosgoth had not been doomed yet in the current era he inhabited, he was in the clear for now. With nothing remotely better to engage his time with, Kain casually sat down beside the pillar of conflict. Thankfully Aerial was still alive, so no half rotted lamenting ninny would disturb his moment of solitude. His purpose for the moment remained clear, Raziel must come so the reality of his miserable existence could be revealed. Whilst waiting, Kain stood to full height and strode towards the pillar of balance. Staring at this form in its pristine uncorrupted state, Kain captured a whiff of something rotting and familiar.

Kain: I know your there, Raziel.

Mortanius: I would hope so (casually pulling his left leg out of a rather small red wormhole). Otherwise what kind of vampiric son would you be?

At this point Kain was distinctly bemused. Damn, Mortanius destroyed a perfectly dramatic moment that would of suited his ignorant vampiric offspring. The Gaurdian of Death was slightly more concerned with a shinney trinket in his fleshless hand to worry about Kains feelings.

Mortanius: behold! For I have found the very essence of your deluded metaphoric ramblings.

Clutched between his skinless fingers lay the infamous two-sided coin.

Mortanius: The precious essence of your empires fate hangs at this very point in time.

Kain: How so?

Mortanius: It's all dependent on where I place this for your younger self to find. Maybe I'll remove it altogether to cease that infernal symbolic speech.

Kain: My creator was also the one who awakened a yearning desire from within me to destroy Nosgoth?

Mortanius: Worse, I accidentally inspired your three sided coin argument! That firery walk from the demon dimension to Nosgoth you took was also the path I regularly take. One pay day I dropped a farthing whilst visiting Hash--er... never mind.

Casually, Kain felt into a pocket concealed beneath his flowing whitened hair, thankfully the original coin is safe.

Kain: Is there nothing your infernal, corrupted circle has touched?

Mortanius: It can be safely presumed that Moebius remains pure from our manhandling. Farewell Kain.

With a flash the guardian was gone leaving Kain slightly shocked and sickened. At this point he realized Mortanius must be stopped or his entire destiny would be reshapen. No longer would he be able to annoy Raziel with intelligent droning centred around his one other area of interest. Most of his existence orbited around thinking about that bloody coin. Obviously Mortanius was under a dark influence bent on destroying his livelihood. In other words he had to save his main conversation piece, for the time being Raziels quest would have to be postponed, Kain had to find his malefactor.

-----

A bemused Raziel was still reeling from the after effects of Moebius's little jest. The wraith hardly thought a Soul Reaver to the face was an appropriate end to their discussion. His disgust towards this moment was quickly replaced by a shocked awe as he came around the nearest bend to discover Melchiah casually brading Zephons hair. So, the time streamers snide comment regarding his brethrens hair care came to light, how unusual.

Melchiah: Tut, tut, Zephon, my these roots are awfully dry. I'm aghast to think what products have been forced upon these follicles.

Zephon: Dear brother, I only agreed to this due to Raziels insistence, not to mention your lack of hair, for crying out loud we're warrior priests not namby pamby stylists and another thing...-huh?

The two Sarafan, having noticed a certain blue visitor, quickly jumped into a combative stance, armed to the teeth. Sadly for Melchiah his arsenal included a tiny comb and what appeared to be a tube of gel. Zephon stood proudly displaying an arrogance capable of putting Kain to shame. This brave facade received a deminishment due to two small pigtails protruding from the warriors dome. Zephon slightly discouraged by Raziels attempts to hold back a strained giggle, quickly attached a helmet to his armour ensemble covering those hilarious clumps of hair. Melchiah stepped forward holding his implements menacingly, whilst accidentally squirting a blob of gel onto the slabbed pavement.

Melchiah: (putting on a very masculine tone) Come to face your doom demon?

Zephon: Prepare for your demise!

Quickly Melchiah rushed forward with Zephon in hot pursuit. A melancholy irony beheld this situation as the curse of personal Raziel enforced housekeeping took effect. Zephons right bootie made contact with the hair gel, as he lunged forward Melchiah was pinned down, through his chest with a large pointy staff. Raziel couldn't help but feel a tad sorry for how easy his two siblings were making this moment. Then again an angst was felt in relation to this display, as he realized who trained these two in such a shocking manner. The wraith was slightly annoyed with what his youngest brothers alluded to. In many a way they implied that his Sarafan reign was fleeting, superficial and lacked the nobility of a rambo style culture. Despite these grave realities, Raziel was more concerned with one of Moebius's previous comments, that the time streamer had known his Sarafan self quite well. Now this in itself was very disturbing.

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Desperate to see a particular character's life manipulated? All suggestions gladly accepted ;)


	4. Death is Only the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

From this point on, it kind of gets a bit confusing- by the end of the story there will be at least three different versions of each character (eg. Time of the Ancients Morty, Sarafan period Morty and Kain's era Morty). For those who have finished all five games, it shouldn't be too bad. Anyway most chapters are really warped plays on Nosgothian 'history' related situations, whilst others are guess work/ really out there. THX for the great reviews. As per usual- if you have a character request, do tell ;) For Vorador and the Sarafan Lord, I need to replay a few game segments, don't worry more material soon...There are a few brief Vorry moments in this chap.

,NCA

**-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

**Chapter Four: Death is Only the Beginning**

**-----**

Aerial despised the bitter irony associated with her former position. The young Kains visits were constantly heralded with a reminder that her physique was missing a fine pair of stilts. It greatly amused this fledgling that the Balance Guardian herself, was incapable of supporting her own weight. Despite the ghosts protests, that death had released her from such frivolous appendages, the vampire continued to laugh. Nupraptor, her love, once told her that even if her body was tainted through mutilation or misdeed, his desire would never faulter. This of course was a lie, Aerials death failed to drive Nupraptor insane, it was her visage as a legless spirit. You see, the ever loyal Nuprator, had always been a leg man.

**-----**

Back in the day, Raziel was regarded as quite the diva. Amongst Kains children, the raven haired child sported a radiant beauty and was not afraid to show it. The Razielims possessed their masters keen fashion sense and love of all things shinney. This grated on the nerves of many of the other clans warriors and their lord sensed this. The Rahabims were growing restless and showing an utter dismay towards their cousins. For they were fashioned with a unique and cruel burden. Unlike the other clans the Razielims had three times the number of exquisite outfits and the laundry load was frustrating at best.

As a warrior class, Kain feared the example his first born was portraying, as this implied to the remaining humans that his empire was 'girly'. This displeased the mighty Kain, who considered himself quite the buxom masculine sort. The embarrassment of Raziels raiding parties, stealing this years fashions from the human cattle and leaving naked villagers running throughout the countryside, burned. Sadly Raziel, a victim of clothing trends, was completely unaware that his reign contained non-butch elements.

Another concern lay in those ridiculous outfits, once Raziel graced the sanctuary sporting a pink pimp hat regurgitating a large peacock feather, something called bling-bling resembling a golden necklace holding a gigantic R, brown ugg boots with leather pants and god forbid a gigantic furry coat with an undershirt. Suspiciously, these garments resembled those Vorador used to keep tucked away in his mansions many closets. At this moment, Kain swore if his son ever entered the thrownroom wearing anything so mind numbingly stupid, well, the consequences would be harsh. The jealous in fighting had to be stopped and in famous Nosgothian tradition the main anti heroes were to embrace a 75 percent, nude policy. That was that and a momentary happiness fell throughout his children for the next few days. Until Raziel called a meeting amongst the clans for a final time.

Kain sat restlessly at the base of the pillar representing balance, locked in an eternal struggle. The exists were well guarded and the chamber had barely any ventilation. The rather persistent aroma that wafted off the lieutenants was starting to take its toll on the old vampires smell receptors. If Raziel failed to arrive in hast, heads would roll faster than Moebius's loyalty. Finally the glorious show off entered the chamber in a modest fashion that mocked Raziels usual masquerade. Slowly the vampire approached the centre of the circle, kneeling down, revealing a finely tailored pair of wings.

Despair gradually crept over Kains features revealing a strong combination of disgust and annoyance. That little bastard, the entire empire was surely going to collapse into a state of civil war over this inconsiderate action. Most likely all the Razielisms would be copying this latest fashion trend, the washing alone would tipple once more. The Rahabims might rebel, throwing down their rubber gloves and embracing a state of anarchy. This would never occur under Kains rule, there was only one sensible response to this insubordination. His wayward child was to suffer the fate of traitors, shirt wearers and weaklings, by embracing the soothing waters of the Abyss.

**-----**

The journey had been taxing on the archaic and infamously lazy Vorador. Despite this his destination was near, the main entrance to Audrons retreat remained blocked off by a gigantic boulder. So Vorador in his infinite wisdom used a back door that the Sarafan were strangely unaware of. This was largely Maleks fault, who was required to patrol that particular area. However the conflict gaurdian came up with a convenient excuse which failed to impress Mortanius later down the line. Honestly, that 'pleasures of the flesh' crack was a totally inappropriate comment. Malek merely visited Voradors mansion to find the decadent old fool not to heroically rescue the dozens of prostitutes round back that the fiend was planning to converte.

Whilst Malek was away from his post, Turel inherited said duties, however also being a legs man, this individual tended to skip down to a certain house of ill repute in Uschteheim. Janos Audron heavily relied on the increasing incompetence within the Sarafan ranks and installed the door out of a growing belief in mankinds inherent kindness. Vorador had on many an occasion told his sire that the door was taking this whole fatalistic thing too far. Yet Janos believed the neighborhood cats would find it easier to accept his handouts on the ground as opposed to the main entrance designed to infuriate Raziel.

In the present, thankfully the majority of the retreat was still in tact, whilst a convenient section of the balcony's roof had fallen down in the main library. Vorador using his great deductive skills, concluded that the universe was out to twist his fate and majorly destroy his moral. Therefore the hardest location to enter, most likely contained his creators corpse. Luckily this was true, as a large three fingered blue hand sticking out from under a pile of boulders revealed. Vorador sighed, the old man always seemed to enjoy giving his son a challenge, sadly this was ridiculous.

**-----**

500 years later:

When the vampire woke, he couldn't help but wonder what insane philosophy had possessed his former apprentices decision, to place these candles in the traditional fire hazard position around his body. For Raziel his concern lay with Audrons amazing ability to remove the blood from his claws, face, cheast and robes in the full five seconds the wraith glanced away. Raziel stared at the ancient for a moment then launched into a series of explanations.

Raziel: Your teachings are devoid of my true nature and by the way Voradors dead!

Janos Audron: Raziel, my child, there is no time for explanations.

Raziel: But, I haven't asked for any!

With this sentiment expressed, Janos grabbed Raziel by his loin cloth and dragged the poor dumbfounded creature quickly to the nearest exist. Janos's lack of compassion for the last of his bloodline, lay in a growing resentment over the positioning of his tomb. The past few centuries in the spectral realm revealed more than he cared to admit. From Necromancers casually passing by to two Sluagh playing hackey sack with what appeared to be a jawbone, these things were tolerable. However spending five hundred years trapped within a chamber, whilst his heart pranced around the globe did not sit well. For one thing the chamber was quite distantly placed away from the mansion. Vorador was clearly executing the time honored practice (there are many) of distinct emancipation from the parent. Simply by allowing the old man a place round back, Janos likened this to burying a pet in the backyard. Voradors sire believed that a place in doors would of been more fitting, at least his spectral self would of felt more involved with each eras affairs. Sadly a corpse lying amongst the houses vast stunning artifacts was not exactly an awe inspiring conversation piece. Janos resented this, after all weren't they all corpse's?

Having rushed the pair to the vampire citadel, Janos quickly threw Raziel out of the main chamber into the hallway. Raziel promptly landed face first into pile of rubble. Behind him a large door closed concealing the room he had previously inhabited.

Raziel: (Tapping on the newly formed barrier) Janos, wait, I have questions!

Janos: (Pretending to be wise and dignified staring out towards the pillars in the mist). Go my child, you shall find the answers you seek in an underground chamber, somewhere.

With a lengthy silence separating the pair, Raziel began to wonder if his existence merely echoed a series of cruel misdirections. Were intriguing personalities forever bent on moving his person forcefully into unkind positions and places? First Moebius in the past, who hinted his machinations in a subtle way and now Janos Audron. The disenchanted creature composed himself, brushed away a few specs of dirt, then began his quest to find whatever it was, happened to be in that very nameless direction.

**----- **


	5. Time Streaming, the Pros and Cons

**Chapter Five: Time Streaming, the Pros and Cons.**

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Mortanius thought back to that faithful day when he met Hash'ak'gik at the Necromancers anonymous party. For some strange reason Azimuth had been there, this should have hinted something, she being a Planer and all. At the time Morty was too enraptured with the free cocktail weenies and the grilled cheese to care. The dark forces of Nosgoth had this amazingly apt way of getting to the heart of things, the Gaurdian of Death on the other hand was more concerned with scoring a few freebies along his path of righteousness. You see, Morty had principles, unlike the other members of the Circle of Nine, he believed in serving the land and its people. Therefore his profit margin was rather low, robbing the dead only gets you so far. This noble flaw, as most would see it, made him a pretty handy vessel to inhabit. Before Mortanius could react, a congo line had been formed and the next day he awoke with a bottle of tequila in one hand and a stinging migraine.

Luckily he had somehow managed to make it home, after a long night of partying and trying to avoid Azimuth's drunken lecherous advances. Mortanius casually rose to find a future version of the Time Streamer Moebius leaning against a stone wall in his room, whilst trying to clean a grey slab with his toothbrush. Morty wondered for the life of him what in the seven hells was going on, for there before his bed lay what seemed like an army of socks. These tiny possessed abominations were carrying a green sock towards a guillotine. Moebius and the woolly foot warmers were staunchly unaware of the Guardian of Deaths presence. Mortanius thought it best to close all the red dimensional portals inhabiting his domain. Future visages of Moebius on his hands and knees cleaning the tiles was weirdly comforting, however the socks were quite disturbing. With this little revelation the invaders disappeared leaving Mortanius to his own devices.

The night before had been quite taxing, the archaic reapers nerves were shot and his thudding temples continued down a steady path of annoyance. It was as though a presence was starting to push through, in the hopes of invading the back door of his psyche. Mortanius rolled to one side of the grand overly decorated gothic bed, that had Sebastians ceal of approval and tried to rest his weary head. Suddenly a loud thumping noise interrupted his attempts to enter the land of the dreaming.

Mortanius: Dumah, Rahab! Whatever jackass happens to be on duty, by all that is holy, somebody open that infernal door!

The hallway was silent and whomever was outside the strongholds main entrance continued their assault. Distinctly annoyed and in a rather pissy mood, the Necromancer headed towards the large wooden doorway. Upon opening it, Mortanius noticed a small intimidated boy, holding what appeared to be six bottles filled with a white liquid substance.

Mortanius: Weren't you supposed to be here some time ago, young man?

The Milk boy: Ummm, sir your eyes they're...

Mortanius: They're what?

The Milk boy: ...glowing...

Mortanius: Is that so?

Today Mortanius was not to be triffeled with, the incompetence of the milk industry had snapped their last dead straw. For indeed the Necromancers eyes were glowing, not their usual white soulless stare, but endowed with a light demonic green. An evil smile crept upon Morty's features as he removed his left foots slipper, pulling off a black sock and placing it in the childs free hand.

Mortanius: For failing the circle, with your blatant inability to deliver the milk on time...what's your name?

The Milk boy: er...Timmy

Mortanius: ...Timmy of the milk trade, you are hereby damned! From this day forward the pleasures of the...hmmmm you do seem a little young for that sort of thing, oh well never mind.

With that simple curse, the Necromancer was happy and Timmy was now wrapped around Mortanius's left foot. He kneeled forward and picked up the six bottles of milk, wondering where the other three went. In the distance unnoticed by the gaurdians glare, Rahab and Dumah happily sat under a large willowy tree enjoying their lunch break. Together they toasted the days success, with two mugs filled to the brim containing a white liquid. For drinking mead on the job would be wrong, they must stay alert, if those fiends of the night were to attack during the day.

Mortanius fell back into the warm embrace of his glorified cot and let the screams of his new accessary lull him to sleep. The six bottles sat unattended to, on a lone desk, much to Moebius's dismay the next day. Every Time Streamer knows a good cup of coffee with a dash of milk, is a perfect start to each morning, even if it is sour.

-----

Faustus was glad that his subtle genius was capable of removing the ever arrogant Sebastian from his proud family owned business. The ever fashion conscious Willendorf man of gypsy heritage (on his Mothers side some four centuries ago, it really explains his hair) was now faced with a new troubling dilemma. Never had he seen so many socks with varying personalities, let alone animation. Now personality to Faustus was not defined by the vocab of an individual, but their stitching. These little beauties were finely tailored, luckily Mortanius liked comfortable fashionable socks with their own individual flaires. The possessed socks were lucky to be unique in their own right. Unluckily for Faustus, a deeply pissed off old man, sporting what appeared to be a snake trying to devour a snow globe attached to a staff, had traveled to the future just to find the Necromancers tailer. Thankfully Moebius was omniscient, otherwise he could of been tracking down any one of Faustus's family members from many a different era.

Moebius: You! (the Time Guardian sneered). Do you have any idea the hellish nightmare I've had to endure at the...hands, of these things!

He grabbed one violently and threw it towards Faustus's general direction, the sock landed on his tunic and lovingly wrapped itself around the tailors arm.

Faustus: Old man, these accursed things are not of my creation!

To this Faustus looked down at the sentient sockling hugging his arm for dear life. There was a tag with the what appeared to be a name, Morty. On the other side was Faustus's signature grin and address to his fashion house. To this the tailor thought, oh crap and hoped to the dear sweet all knowing deity, this man hadn't noticed. Fausty remained ungifted in the art of saving his own keister, as Moebius was painfully aware who originally crafted the pre-possessed designs of those things.

Moebius: Child, these fiendish creations are yours. Signing them with a signature, hints some kind of connection to their creator.

Faustus, being the pretty quick on his feet sort, suddenly had another bright idea.

Faustus: Not I, dear sir, my name is merely the brand. You see, a gifted young gentleman down the street makes them for me.

Moebius: (clearly suspicious) Oh really, where can I find this fellow?

Faustus: Just round the corner, he has taken up residence next to the barbers shop on Hyde Avenue. The fellow also runs a fashion store and lives with the Willendorf army commander.

Moebius kicked himself for not foretelling this possibility. Yet in his arrogance the Streamer assumed that Faustus was the one who created these wooly creatures before their possession.

Moebius: If this is a jest tailor, my return shan't be as heartening.

With this revelation, Faustus bowed politely as the guardian left. The tailor smiled a wicked little grin and looked down at the black entity clinging his arm. Suddenly there was a distinct rattling round back, then a thud. Ah, thought Faustus to himself, Marcus has finally returned. A few days ago, he had sent his egomaniacal secretary on a little errand, to gather the armour and garments off the peasants slaughtered by the legions of the Nemesis. A bald head popped around the corner, curiously seeing if anyone was around.

Faustus: Marcus, my dear fellow, did we gather anything of profitable mention?

Marcus: yes of cour-...

Another thud transpired as Marcus had made the mistake of accidentally brushing past Faustus's arm with the loot. The sockling seemed overprotective of its original master and was happy to snuggle any possible attackers larynx. Faustus sighed and casually walked over Marcus's limp frame to see what the commotion going on outside was all about.

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	6. If Only a Door Knocker Echoed Such a Fin

**Chapter Six: If Only a Door Knocker Echoed Such a Fine Pair**

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The wraith Raziel surveyed his surroundings, Melchiah and Zephon were long dead and embraced in gut wrenching pose. In life this may have comforted Melchiah, however for Zephon such a situation would of been revered in a symphony of horrors. One lone piggy tail poked out from the doomed warriors limp form, mocking the masculine traits he had aspired to.

Sadly upon impact, the younger brother had also rammed his comb into Zephons gob, causing the poor fellow to choke away his remaining moments. Melchiah being the lowest ranking member of his brood had nothing to fear, this death still provided the Sarafan, a weird kind of dignity.

Raziel walked into the next chamber, that in the future would be dedicated to the fallen boy king, William the Just. There was a chilling silence and a distinct absence of Sarafan prepared to meet their doom. To be certain of the pairs absence, Raziel searched the hall until he came across what appeared to be a small sign attached to the strong rusted iron gate guarding a set of murals. The note stated the following:

Out to lunch.

Gone fishin'

Rahab and Dumah

Raziel was utterly dismayed by this declaration, it single handedly destroyed his dramatic self righteous vengeful moment. How could fate do this? Breaking the path of his destiny, ruining a perfectly angst ridden, possible spectacle. The entire atmosphere for the deed was single handedly ruined by this proclamation. The wraith despaired until he noticed two figures, through a window, sitting outside the stronghold under a willowy tree, knocking back a few drinks. Raziel was disgusted, honestly, getting soused on the job, true the Sarafan were ideologically parallel to what he now believed, but this behavior was unbecoming.

The serenity of the two warrior priests moment was destroyed as a young man ran screaming away from the stronghold. A booming voice was then heard declaring that the child would not escape his clutches, along with another statement announcing his disgust towards the childs tardiness and the absence of three milk bottles. With this proclamation Rahab and Dumah looked a tad guilty, as the child tried to escape the booming man by climbing the willowy tree.

What happened next failed to surprise Raziel in the least, for vengeance, this was not his eternity. A green aura surrounded the milk boy as his soul escaped a once lively pound of rotting flesh. The force of the 'exorcism' caused a large branch to give into gravity, crushing the inquisitors bellow. Raziel, surprisingly, rolled his eyes and watched as his wayward brothers souls entered the spectral realm. A small stream of milk fell from Dumahs mug as it embraced the grassy area below.

Raziel stared at the sign for a moment and wondered how the Sarafan would remember this occurrence in glorified detail. For two Sarafan in the courtyard were hugging one another in deadly embrace, one clutching a comb and the other sporting pigtails. Whilst Rahab and Dumah lay crushed beneath a branch with the body of a small child at the very top. Thankfully this particular organization was infamous in regard to missing the obvious. His brethren would go to the grave content, with a legend that glorified them as the greatest vampire hunter warrior priests of Nosgoth. Raziel wondered if he and the reaver would even have an opportunity to kill a single hateful relation. With this revelation, Raziel headed towards the rusted iron gates, removed the sign and prepared for his next challenge.

Outside the stronghold, Mortanius nailed yet another soul to the Sarafan keeps entrance. He stood back for a moment, proud of his growing collection. Oblivious to the corpses in his wake, the Necromancer sighed, realizing he was starting to run out of socks.

-----

Umah presented herself with a feigned kind of dignity. Unknown to the recently awakened Kain, she was regarded as the most inclined within her harem, to comfort big eared, green folk. Her escapades were legendary, for days the pair would be off exploring unknown destinations. The others viewed these sessions with unbridled suspicions and tainted gossip. Vorador would return with a smile on those jaded lips and a song in his blackened undead heart. For his mansion was a large place, with many rooms that needed their attention. The place was so dirty, often Umah would return covered from head to toe in grim. Her secret lay in those scantily clad outfits and a pair of rubber gloves. For you see, Vorry loved the girl as she was the only one graced with the skill and talent to remove the dust mites from his carpeting.

Vorador was many things, forgetful fell short of this expansive list. The decadent vampire remembered Kain's involvement in a little execution that resulted in the removal of his second most prized item. His head continued to tilt slightly to the left and leak whenever there was a need to feed. Now that his tailor had switched sides upkeep on his necks stitching was beginning to fall short. Umah may be a whiz with the old mop and sponge, but her sewing skills sucked. Thankfully his female fledgling grasped certain compensating aspects that constantly got in the way of her housekeeping. The twins were a force to be reckoned with during the war and surely would help keep the legendary Kain at bay.

Upon his awakening, Kain was met with what appeared to be a pair of legs, a torso and a headless expanse that held only what appeared to be two enormous purple weather balloons. Had the world he knew as a boy changed so, that now these hypnotically maladjusted entities were roaming the globe? Thankfully Umah knelt forward failing to break her back, to pick up a coin that rolled out of Kain's previously clutched hand.

Umah: Is this yours, dark child of the night?

Kain: Why you condescending witch. Woman! I believe I have two centuries on you!

Umah: The coin, Kain.

Kain: Yes, hand that trinket over, wench!

The former sleeping beauty grabbed his coin and wondered where the other female servants had wandered off to. The creature before him was tiresome and annoying. It was time to call his faithful guards to remove this vile, largely endowed vixen.

Kain: Gaur- urk.

Before he could finish his sentence, the twins came into full view plastering the former war lord to one side as Umah turned around to face the nearest window.

Umah: My dark prince, you have been asleep for two centuries.

Kain looked down and noticed that he seemed to be missing his favorite amour chest plate.

Kain: Foul harpy, explain this state of undress upon my person!

Umah: Ah yes, I also wondered what happened to your outdated plates. However, the only other to have access to this chamber was Billy, the most trusted chamber boy.

So ingrained was the integrity of Billy, that Vorador believed the lad to be the most suited to guarding the power mad comatose body of Kain. The basis for this judgment came to light when the pair met at a local brothel, two towns over. Both having the exact taste of women in varying degrees of undress, led the vampire to believe the boy was up to the task. Unknown to Umah, the chamber boy had been earning a penny or two on the side. The rippling hardened abs of the princeling were quite the attraction amongst the old wealthy widows, who payed through the roof prices for a mere glance. Sadly for Kain, one of these ladies decided to take his chest plate as a memento.

Kain: This boy, where is he now?

Umah: I have not seen the fellow today.

For young Billy, granted the dark gift at the age of 15 by Vorry, had faithfully guarded Kain for two centuries. In doing so, the fledgling fulfilled his dream of opening a strip joint on the upper east side. The decision came after an unfortunate incident involving Kain, some whipped cream, a pair of pliers and a harem rival, Cassandra. All in all Vorador couldn't of been happier with the service Billy provided, having visited Kain only once.

Umah sighed, looking out the nearest window wondering if Kain was truly the savior of Nosgoth. Whilst Kain, proudly strolled around the room calling for a wench to serve him the finest mug of ale in all the land.

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	7. The Price Associated With Being Turel

All characters belong to Crystal Dynamics and Eidos (C) 1995- 2006.**  
**

**Chapter Seven: The Price Associated With Being Turel**

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It was time, Turel could feel the sneering machinations of fate taking heed. Sadly such a moment sorely lasted long enough. Their breath lingered down the back of that proud warriors neck and those eyes coldly betrayed its true intentions.

Raziel thrust himself through the steel gates after discarding the two dead Sarafans note. Shocked, the wraith realized truly how cruelly destiny regarded his insignificant path. For he had been too late, a small crowd lingered staring at the limp form of the once so righteous Turel. A few were in shock, whilst the rest cackled at the minuscule droplets of blood rinsing down their manicured nails. Raziel felt a clear combination of disgust and awe at what these luminous vixens orchestrated seconds before his arrival.

Poor Turel, for every campaign the Sarafan embarked upon, there was a parallel number of irked femme fatale. Zephon often joked, that the green tart probably kept a woman per village they passed. Sadly this estimate was not far off. For indeed there were women and each hamlet sported quite a few more than a mere one. Eventually through a grape vine of gossip and close relations, these lovers realized the extent of connections Turel coolly held. Soon a singular platoon, carrying women of all shapes and sizes, wracked with incredible rage, decided that their humiliation deserved a price. They embarked towards the Sarafan Stronghold, intent on displaying the true wrath of a woman scorned.

Too bad for Turel, the only person capable of stopping them was out buying a new pair of socks. The lifeless vessels of Dumah and Rahab were slightly less threatening than the Necromancer, however death was something any loyal Sarafan should of been able to overcome. Then again those two were never that dedicated to the 'cause'.

Raziel still aghast, decided to choose his words carefully, in case the mob decided to direct their wrath towards his general direction.

Raziel: Cruel harpies, do you not know the extent of suffering this poor individual, I, have been through? Each, deserve the full force of the underworld resting upon your lifeless carcasses, as the fires of hell, embrace your very souls. Trudging through the glim metaphors of a demented creatures love hate relationship involving a coin, a senile geriatrics idiotic facade and the bitter choice to commit a spiritual suicide. The one joy of placing this bastard into the ground has escaped my grasp thanks to your selfish tantrums! Oh bitter fate, why me?

As the walking figure of tattered blue flesh barely hugging a framework of bone, continued to prattle on, a few women decided savoring their short decomposing visage amongst all this whine, was simply not worth it. With a quaint nod of acknowledgment from the head scorned female, the rest quickly departed the blood splattered hall.

Raziel: Woe is me...wait but a second wenches, this conversation is yet to diminish!

With an annoyed sigh, Raziel looked down at Turels corpse, inspecting the damage. There was a slight spasm as the body twitched for a moment. Elated, the wraith rushed forward, ready to pounce.

Raziel: Ha! You vile fiend, thought you could escape your fate, like the others?

The body failed to respond a second time and with this, Raziel thought it best to check for a pulse. After fumbling under the humans turtle neck attached to what appeared to be an elaborate muscle suit, it was revealed the knight seemed clearly dead. Raziel responded to the situation in the only way he knew how, beginning a ridged course of distinct cursing and elaborate whined up metaphors.

-----

The highly evolved Kain was distinctly irritated by the possessed Mortanius's desire to remove the single most important item in his entourage. Not the Soul Reaver, but a small trinket that was said to turn three ways, after being tossed against the full force of gravity. The warlord had tracked the Necromancer to strange red dimension filled with unspeakable horrors.

Hylden 1 aka Bob: Is this not the place, you have long feared, vampire?

For Kain, beneath what seemed to be Avernus (as there was a large archaic sign with the Nosgothian symbol for the cathedral nearby), lay an intricate network of catacombs. They held a dimension carrying an unspeakable hub, with an evil beyond all imagination.

Kain: (uttering a throaty wheeze) No. It can not be...

For it was, the very axis of evil, Morty's bingo group. A decrepit gathering of like minded souls, that entertained the Guardian as he waited for the youthful Kain to reach the pillars. The mob consisted mainly of elderly overbearing Hylden and strange demonic entities constantly swapping war stories.

Suddenly, behind the vampire came a hearty and cheerful cry. The kind reserved for a long lost friend or even family members. Kain turned around a little too quickly, almost slicing the chirpy attacker into a well defined half.

The creature: Oh Kain, it has been so long. How fairs your empire?

With a skeptical look, the former Lord of Nosgoth approached this being, collecting his senses.

Kain: Janos, what manner of bitter trickery is this?

Janos Audron: None my friend, when the Sarafan Lord and I, had our little scuffle, I fell into the demon dimension...

Kain recollected his thoughts of that embarrassing moment when the pair did battle. In many ways their squabble resembled a pair of surly tarts enacting a shamefully inept cat fight. The anti-hero really expected more from the founder of the modern day vampire race, for he had always known the Sarafan Lord to be a sissy. Maybe Janos's heart wasn't in the right place?

Janos Audron:...and then, well, I spent the last few millenia here. The chamber is quite strange every few centuries the captive entities inside are beamed back in time. This was to ensure the Hylden never escaped. However, then a few cycles down the line, the captives are forced forwards and vice versa. So I've been stuck in a never ending cycle. According to the Hylden it'll last another century and we'll be free, thanks to Raziel, so my former self can be repossessed. Ah, how is the boy? Blah, blah, blah...

By then Kain had clearly lost interest, realizing the drivel of time had surely taken its toll on the Ancients mind. With an indigent shudder, he decided to explore the chamber, leaving the big blue fairy to chat up a statue in the far east corner.

Escaping the demon dimension and entering the material realm had not been hard for Kain. The Nosgothian desire to place important things behind large shiny and elaborately protected puzzles rang true. After lighting a few things on fire, pulling some switches and jumping over strange creatures screaming vampiri, he had arrived.

Hiding behind an over sized boulder, Kain leered at the spectacle before him. Several of Azimuths friars were worshiping that loathsome entity known as Hash'ak'gik or Hashy to its friends. Though offended by the mention of the damned creatures name, his quarry was near and presenting the 'deity' a sacrificial lamb. The gift was in the form of a human child, clearly not exactly thrilled with her predicament. After a few more chants, a slice of the child's throat, some splattering of blood and the corpse falling into the pit, the ceremony was over. Casually the friars disembarked from the cavern, leaving the pair alone.

Mortanius, entered into a small room and slumped down upon an over the top skeletal chair. Kain followed turning into mist form, to create an elaborate entrance. As the Scion of Balance floated dramatically around the corner into the Guardians chamber, his heart fell.

Mortanius: (looking absent mindedly into Kain's direction) Honestly, one would believe the great Kain, might think these things through.

Kain returned to a more solid, handsomer version of himself.

Kain: No tricks, Necromancer, give me, the coin!

Hash/Mortanius: This one grows weak and slightly annoyed- urk.

Kain: Suppress that infernal demon, hand over the damned farthing.

Mortanius: (Ahhh-urk/eep cough cough, wheeze) It's no longer in my capable hands, vampire.

Kain: Oh this is getting tedious, surely I need not remind you, that in this time line, Raziel shall be along soon. My former self requires your throat and I have more important matters to attend to, such as redeeming Nosgoth.

The important matters, Kain referred to lay near the pillars on his human selfs birth 30 years ago. Not only was this a pristine moment to celebrate, but a perfect opportunity to drone on endlessly towards an estranged 'relative'. The downside lay in his lack of props, this was the only time traveling coin on hand, all the others disappeared. As though a certain Time Streamer liked to rob his chronoplast chamber travelers through unknown sorcery.

Mortanius: (Now quite clearly writhing in agony) That insufferable Ancient, Janos won it in a bingo match...satisfied.

Kain: Hopefully you speak true, otherwise I'll simply extract it from your corpses possessions once my younger self is finished.

With that, Kain quickly sky dived into the pit, just as Raziel popped his head up, ready to interrogate the Necromancer. Unfortunately for the vampire lord, he fell upon his second eldest sons, rigor mortis stricken corpse. On the up side, he had finally found Turel and he was not scouring the land for 'booty' as Zephon inferred.

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	8. The Necromancers New Hobby

**Chapter Eight: The Necromancers New Hobby**

**-----**

As of late, Faustus had noticed the distinct ease in which certain expressions dared to twitch absent mindedly onto his mug. Evil possessive smirks instantly took hold, upon witnessing the ludicrous fiasco's that continued to haunt his very presence. For instance, that in which was presenting itself to the damned tailor, enlisted several strained attempts from the man, to hide his inappropriate emotional outbursts of contented joy.

Outside his proud family owned business of several generations, a raucous casually filled the very streets of Willendorf. This had all started unexpectedly, thanks to a Necromancers obsession and a Time Streamers inability to let anything 'go'.

Earlier that day after interrogating Faustus, Moebius arrived at a rather lovely cabin. Within, a heated dispute raged as Sebastian dared to destroy several of Magnus's most prized posetions. This was all very well and good, however Magnus was not one known for an unbridled degree of rational thought.

The Army Commander regarded his damaged collection of Tupperware with a deep sense of loss. These items were delivered to his domain at quite the unbearable cost. Many families suffered the full wrath of this odd hobby, that captured the mans every waking moment, through constant raids and humiliations. Though his mourning wasn't instantaneous, he planned a funeral for the very next day, his wrath was.

Before the incident transpired, Sebastian had returned from his very first day shopping amongst the townsfolk. The experience was daunting, many of the city goers suggested cruel and unusual things to the fashion victim. The first lying with the strange arrangement the fellow held, now living with a certain Army Commander. Willendorf thrived on gossip, Sebastian's livelihood and appearance fit a stereotypical aspect, that the village elders could not deny. For the rest of the day , the towns people offered the man many a strange item. For instance, fruit seemed to top this expansive list.

Upon arriving home, Sebastian was carrying, at least five baskets of peaches and other assorted goodies. Sadly, gravity let fly and an expressionistic parade of edibles graced the hallway, knocking over Magnus's prized conversation piece and several other items of Tupperware. Which happened to be a BK (Before Kain, as this is how Nosgothians mark time, around he who condemned the land, even though he hadn't done anything, yet), archaic kettle from the Great Southern Lake region.

An interesting tale lay behind this prized possession. It was said that back in the day, a strange mysterious being known as Moe or Mimmy, lived in the Sarafan's keep, on the lakes outskirts. From within, the fellow had a rather tiresome day, a by product of serving the powerful and evil Lord Malek. Said to be the great and long feared Necromancer who condemned that skeleton of a man Mortimer to an eternity of suffering.

Now this story has been past down a great line of individuals, so they can be forgiven for missing a few key points. Anyway, Moe or Mimmy, was busy cleaning the fearsome Maleks inner sanctum after partying the night before. The legendary Time Streaker had quite the hangover from an archaic deviants anonymous get together.

Suddenly, a loud thudding interrupted the man's obsessive cleaning regiment. He called for the ever faithful Sarafan, Dora and Rahib, to answer the blasted door. However these two were busy, having their own little celebration. Which resulted in the proud warriors crashing into a willowy tree, causing their own premature demise. Like some strange little blue creature said, it never pays to get soused on the job.

Moe was forced to remove his drooling exhausted self, off of Maleks finally stitched Willendorf carpeting. He answered the door, after much heartache, discovering a kettle abandoned at the first front step. Simply left alone, without a soul in sight, except for Dora's and Rahib's departing ones.

So, the streaker lovingly took the item inside and gave it a comfortable home for the next five and a bit centuries. Sadly parting with the damn thing when Mortimer, the suit of finely crafter amour, sold it for more socks.

In truth, the kettle was cast aside into the Southern Lake by a cranky Time Streamer, annoyed by the lack of fresh milk that morning. Honestly, Mortanius was a heartless bastard.

Magnus, however knew neither of these stories and simply told people, it originally belonged to Vorador. scourge of Termogent forest, a craven beast he once defeated a long time ago. In reality he bought the trinket from Agatha's Antiques on the other side of town.

In the present, Sebastian was quite the unlucky designer, as Magnus had been home when this incident occurred. As the tailer fell easily to a the mans deranged desire to place him in a headlock, the door bell rang. After several attempts at the civilized way, an old man gave up and merely entered the humble abode. With several blackened entities trailing behind him, Moebius stared disgusted at the pair. He then grabbed one of the foul creatures and held it high in the air above their faces.

Moebius: Which one of you cretinous imbeciles created these...things?

Sebastian and Magnus ceased their squabble for a moment and glanced towards the sockling, then at one another. After a brief awe stricken silence the pair fell to the ground in utter hysterics.

Moebius was at the end of his tether, the entire affair had been a nightmare filled with the most undeniable atrocities. The rage presented its self swiftly, from the Streamers undeniably calm exterior. His anger lashed forth striking the two jackanapes off balance, as they were teleported into the nearby street which happened to be directly in front of Faustus's abode.

Moebius: Why you disgusting, little peasants! Tell me, or feel the wrath of time upon your features!

Sebastian: Old man, we haven't the foggiest, what in the abyss you're going on about!

Magnus: Do your worst, miserable ancient fiend!

With a graceful flick of the wrist Moebius patted his 'snow globe' and a deliciously evil smile followed. Magnus felt his head for a moment, there was something distinctive missing. His dome felt cold and naked, then the realization hit, with a sudden dread. He was bald. That long wavy mass of blackened hair fell onto the stony streets nearby, abandoning their former perch. There was a shrill scream as Magnus fell to the ground clutching himself pathetically and whimpering for someone called Mumsy. Sebastian looked disdainfully at his roommate and decided the most apt thing to do at this moment was to help the wrinkled stranger.

Sebastian: I'm afraid you have been led on a fruitless (cringing at the word) quest.

Moebius: Why should I believe you? Certain sources were quite insistent, regarding your guilt, tailor!

Sebastian: Oh, really?

From behind the pair, a distinctive muffled laugh filled the air. Sebastian arched his eyebrows and subtley hinted to the Streamer, who was obviously responsible. Faustus had tried ever so hard to muffle his enjoyment of the situation invading his front yard, yet failure ensued.

Moebius glared at the pony tailed fashion freak and decided it was time to show this special someone, what the pointy end of his staff was for.

-----

Moebius smiled to himself and thought back to the event in Willendorf, oh the things he did to that tailer. Now he was finally home, Mortanius's chamber, clean at last and those damned socks finally layed to rest. They had been destroyed when Fausty's infamous family business caught on fire. Suspiciously, another tailer had fled the town along with a certain old man reported to be at the scene.

Moebius sat down, at last a chance to relax, take in his surroundings and a time to enjoy a nice cup of milk. He sat, alone, in his personal chamber, simply lazing about. Suddenly, Mortanius popped his head into the room and smiled, which was quite strange for the Necromancer, especially towards Moebius.

Moebius: Mortanius you decrepit skeleton, what do you desire from me?

Mortanius: Oh, lets just say I wanted to show off my latest creation.

For a moment Moebius's heart stopped in fearful anticipation. Oh no, surely the demented fool hadn't created more of those, things? The Necromancer turned around, bringing in a youth.

Mortanius: This is Tom, our latest recruit. Strangely gifted in the dark arts and ready to fill in poor Raziels former position. His first mission shall be against that vile fiend, Vorador.

In truth Tommy was the keeps head gardener. (Ref. See, The Eternal Flower)

Moebius: (Clearly relieved), Oh, that's nice. Welcome to the team, goodbye.

With that, they left and the Time Streamer closed his bedrooms door and prepared for the night ahead. Removing his robe and slipping into a fine pajama set, a gift from a secret admirer, a few days ago. As he quietly slumbered, a lone sleeve began to twitch.

-----

Back in Willendorf, Marcus and Faustus sighed, looking at the rubble that had formerly supported their livelihood.

Marcus: (Almost wailing) What now?

Faustus: Oh, who knows? We could move to Termogent forest, become Gypsy's and peddle our wares. We'll be fine, no vampires due to the swamp and plenty of hunters in need of garments.

Before Marcus could inform Faustus, what those hunters were tracking down, the two were off and ready to embrace their infamous destiny.

-----


	9. Endings

**Chapter Nine: Endings**

**-----**

Raziel felt in many ways, betrayed, not through the various actions of his sire, but the harsh realities of fate. Each of his brethren, calmly knelt before the hand of death, unaware of the cool wrath, that the wraith wished to personally deliver. All that remained was a grim finale, to be orchestrated against that vile fiend he loathed the most, himself.

Raziel took a gander down, towards Turels remains and decided in this state, the Sarafans personality was most likable. In life, the incurable womanizer was a self righteous pain in the lower back region. Well, that was the conclusion Raziel drew from the vampire version of this deviant.

There was a small scuffling noise behind Raziel, as he heard a voice oh so familiar.

Sarafan Raziel: Oh, Turel, Turel, Turel. If only you had stayed away from the women folk, like a good little soldier. Lord Moebius always said, nothing wonderful ever came from fraternizing with the enemies wives.

The warrior continued through a door to the corpses right, completely ignoring his wraith form. Raziel stood for a moment bewildered, wondering why the fiend failed to take up arms against his person. With a quick bolt Raziel headed to a nearby chamber housing the fiend.

Raziel: Foul monster, hasten your retreat and prepare for your gruesome demise.

Sarafan Raziel: Listen dear, your dilemma finished with the spirited execution of my 'brother'. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a relic to guard.

The wraith was clearly bewildered, watching the Sarafan casually file his nails, whilst checking out his physique in a nearby pool of water. Raziel couldn't help but wonder the tactical advantage behind such a move, as he'd done the exact same thing at Janos's aerie.

Raziel: I have come to help enlist your end.

Sarafan Raziel: For crying out loud, I'm not Turel, he's embracing the good night slumber as we speak.

Raziel: What in the seven hells do I appear to be?

Sarafan Raziel: Your the creature from that demonic feathered carcasses retreat, the strange woman fixated on my second in command. One of many, after the former Turel.

Raziel: Woman? I'll have you know, in this slightly degenerated state, missing several gender specific organs, I still emanate superior masculine traits than a certain remaining Sarafan.

With this statement Raziel whipped out the reaver in all it's glory and thrust it into the unsuspecting warriors chest. In a whole hearted attempt to demonstrate his point.

Raziel: In fact, I renounce you!

With that, the wraith breathed a sigh of relief, his former selfs body slumped to the ground and twitched for a moment. The humans last act was a feigned attempt to crawl to another nearby pool of water to ensure his hair was in perfect order, for when the others came to collect the body. Damned would he be if Turel appeared handsomer than he in death.

The reaver then turned ready to devour the tiresome wraith. As the sword plunged itself into the walking corpses chest, Raziel wondered if somebody would be so inclined to turn up to ensure he wasn't absorbed. Sadly this certain someone was still off on a quest to find his three sided coin. After Raziel uttered a few choice words, he was engulfed by the sword.

-----

In some minute way, Kain was satisfied. This warm fuzzy feeling derived its meaning from the historical certainties that were about to unfold. The vampire lord may of just wrenched himself out of a certain inert son, whom was suffering from a slight case of death, however this failed to stop his abundant feeling of joy. His 'father' was about to face the ever effective pointy end of the infamous Soul Reaver. There was no way the bastard could even escape this fate. In the past, Kain tolerated the Necromancer, the fellow was an aid and even a mentor back in the old human circle ridden days of Nosgoth. Yet, there were certain concepts that hastened the rulers rage and the petty theft of a three sided artifact fell on the grudge bearing list.

Despite his prey being the trustworthy blue endowed variety of supreme cuteness, the vampire was not known to relent in the face of public opinion. The Ancient would suffer the full extent of his egomanical fury and quickly hand over that beloved trinket. After all, this was a man who quite happily threw his first born into a fiery pit of unspeakable agony as a diplomatic solution. Ah, yes, that prancing fairy shall soon realize that trusting pupil-less men in bingo matches, to be honest, was not the most brain cell injected idea.

Kain easily immersed himself within the fiery demon dimension. Thankfully Hash was now being dismantled by his younger self and therefore not around to annoy the agitated warlord. He wondered why the demon even bothered following this decadent oroborus cycle, then again Hashy didn't sport the brightest green pair of glowing eye balls. Which in retrospect explained the oh so special nature of that ridiculous flaming hairdo.

-----

Steve was considered by most accounts, a friendly Hylden. He regarded himself as a man of the people, refusing to possess the dead, as this was considered quite distasteful and god forbid, rude. Instead the living were proffered, for instance, how could this be considered ill mannered, if said living, was stupid enough to invite them in? Plus free will was an illusion, therefore this act was destined to transpire. Under his theory, Steve was really a gentleman. Certain standards had to be maintained, children and old folk were never used as vessels. There was tyranny and tacky useless misdirection. Unfortunately the creatures only crime was being on duty when Kain, prince of darkness, arrived.

Steve: Come to face your demise, vam-urk!

Kain was an equal opportunity disgruntler, rage felt for one, easily translated onto the mass of civilization. For instance, after Raziel's execution, it was decided that all clans were to wash their own garments. Rahab was on the verge of a very inappropriate emancipation. The ghastly task was often passed on to the fledglings. The general thinking behind this fell as such, if they can survive the acidic touch of water dripping upon their cuticles twice a week, hoards of human resisters should be a walk in a vampire hunter infested swamp.

Kain: Where is, JANOS AUDRON?

Though outwardly vile, Kain's tone dripped of the sickly sweet variety. One often used such a tone on the meek of mind or naughty children.

Steve: Oh Janos, well, he he, um...

Kain: Quickly, Hylden.

Steve: Over there...

The Hylden pointed with one electrically engulfed claw, towards the left hand side of the large pit. The amazing ability for a seven foot demon to give in to a smaller individual, can often be attributed to the positioning of one soul devouring sword.

Janos remained seated in the corner talking to a strange uninhibited statue. Which managed to sport a stony expression capturing Kain's exact feelings towards the situation.

Janos: It's not that I really approve or disapprove, it's just, I don't see the point. Those buxom beauties run about the place, honestly its unnerving. I raised the lad with a sense of civic duty, to uphold the ancient traditions. The poor male fledglings remain outside, pruning trees and shivering their backsides off. I mean practicalities, I'm surprised there's enough room to store those female interlopers, after all there are only three bedrooms in the entire place! Now I say Vora-...

Kain: Ahem.

Janos: Kain! When did you return? I've just been sharing with Raziel here, my views on the moral decadence of society.

Kain staired at the statue, realizing there was a certain degree of resemblance to the wraith. Provided the fellow gained several pounds, a jaw and received some major gender reassignment surgery. Then again in his current state, who would be any the wiser?

Kain: I understand that recently, you have acquired something of mine, a small trinket if you will.

Janos staired at Kain for a moment, digesting this statement, wondering what could possibly be so important. After all, the vampire lord had felt a sudden inclination, regarding the placement of his hand in conjunction with Janos's throat. Was this thing so important, that this man would take to such physical force?

Janos: (Still chirpy as ever, though slightly strained) Kain, to what do you refer?

Kain: It's three sided during paradoxes, has King Ottomar's royal seal and can time travel.

Janos: What?

Kain: The coin, MY coin. A certain trinket, you won in an uninspired game of bingo.

For the life of him Kain could barely imagine the Ancient playing such a ridiculous game. Then again there were many aspects that covered the creature in a veil of secrecy. One nagging thought had possessed the Scion of Balance for the better part of the year. How for all that was holy, did Janos place those robes around his wings? There was barely enough room for a hand let alone a gigantic feathered apparatus, to get through those minuscule openings. Yet somehow, beyond all known logic, the Ancients mastered the technique. Maybe the damned things were detachable? Whatever the case, Kain had more pressing matters to attend to.

Janos: Coin? Are you insane?

This came from a creature, who a mere moments ago was discussing the decay of moral decency, to a statuette resembling a rather large bosomed Harpy. Kain sighed in utter disbelief, this day had been truly taxing.

Kain: Though the centuries have laid waste to that thing you call a mind, I shall show a degree of restraint. This item is quite precious, if it's not returned in due haste, I may feel slightly inclined to...do something harsh.

Janos for a moment, felt into his robes and produced a small bag.

Janos: There were, certain items acquired during the match, however you may be slightly disappointed.

Kain quickly grabbed the pouch and poured its contents upon the pavement bellow. Coins of every seal, shape and disposition clanged together in a disharmonious heap. The warlord dropped to his knees and began to sift through the coinage. In midst of all this chaos, Janos turned and nodded towards the statue in a kind of meek understanding of this predicament.

Janos: Ah, Raziel, no wonder Nosgothian balance is an ill fated desire.

-----

It had taken the better part of the day, but Kain found his annoying farthing. That big blue fairy hardly helped at all, however the thing was once again, his. Now all that remained was to journey back to the Sarafan keep, some five hundred years ago.

By the time Kain returned to the nearest chronoplast chamber, he uttered a cry of dismay. In typical Sarafan tradition, a note lay nearby declaring the improbable. Those dreadful words that inspired despair in the strongest of creatures:

Out of order, sorry for the delay.

,housekeeping.

Clearly this was bitter trickery, otherwise how would his future self arrive at this moment? Then a bitter thought occurred to the vampire, of course, the man was after all, The Time Streamer. The bastard could make the damned thing work during any period. There was only one solution for this, Kain needed a fine tailer and directions to a recently departed old mans grave site. Looking back on it, maybe the killing blow would have been less counterproductive if it had been a quick stab in the gut. On the bright side, Vorador had proven that a souped up sewing kit was quite capable of preforming otherworldly miracles.

No matter, the coin had been returned, laying lovingly between the creatures cloven hands. This final gift, one delivered at such a high cost, filled the vampire with an unspeakable sense of that dreaded illusion, hope.

-----


End file.
